Peter's Tale: An Alternative Route
by Mandala Morgaine
Summary: This will follow what Peter's life is like in Cork, Ireland. If he hadn't gone off to Montreal, what would his life have been like? Chap 1 may be redundant, but it will pick up. Promises to do my best, but tell me what you think. - M. Morgaine
1. Chapter 1

A Good Bit of Time Later…

"Just tell me where the I-pods are, and me boy here'll leave you alone," said the boss from where he sat on a nearby crate of beer. He would have passed for enjoying the scene if it weren't for the sobering glower that lit his face.

Across the room, a young man was bound hand and foot to a sturdy chair. He was breathing heavily, his soft brown eyes wide with confusion as they moved over every inch of the room in an effort to absorb what he saw. One eye was bloodied already along with his lip, but he didn't seem to notice; he arched in the chair, desperately trying to free himself, until another blow to the head settled him.

"Who are you people?" the captive said. He tried to pop his jaw with a slight groan of pain. "Where am I? Why won't you tell me where I am?"

"I'll tell as soon as ye deliver up those I-pods we're wanting," replied the boss. "It's too much of a coincidence that we find you instead of those boxes of ours, isn't it boys?"

The other two men nodded in affirmation with an ill-tempered gaze directed at the bare-chested man before them. One moved to strike another blow-

"Ricky? Ricky, are ye in there?" a woman's voice called out casually. The boss motioned for silence to his men as she cracked the door and peered in. To her credit, she only briefly glanced at the man strapped into the chair.

"Late already, is it, Caitlin?" The boss, revealing himself to be Ricky, smiled innocently.

"Nah, you've got a phone call is all." Her eyes slid to the man with an equal interest that he shared in her. His eyes were wide, awestruck even, and she couldn't help but feel uncomfortable under his gaze. She slid out of sight with a slight flush spreading on her cheeks.

Ricky cursed under his breath and went behind the bar for the phone. He returned quietly and ordered the men out. A job was to be done in payment for the missing goods, the men were informed quickly as they slid single-file out the rear door. Before he left, he turned to the woman and said,

"Keep a watch on that man. He's dangerous."

She nodded solemnly, but once the sound of crunching gravel had gone from her ears she went to clean the man's face. His face, only a moment ago vivid, was now reflective and seemed close to meditation. Yet, when she touched him, his entire body seemed to flinch at once in earnest.

"Who are you?" His voice was raspy and dehydrated, his lips cracked, but he had a strong look in his eyes.

"I'm Caitlin; you've already met me brother Ricky." She dabbed the cloth against his brow.

"Is he the one with the I-pod fixation?" The stranger didn't wince at her touch now. His eyes followed her evenly as he spoke.

"I guess you could say that," she replied, a hint of a smile playing on her face.

"Then tell him I don't have them! I don't know where they are, and I don't remember who cuffed me in there!"

The bell above the door rang out, and the woman stood quickly. "Hold that thought, will ye?" she said, padding softly out to the main room.

The man heard her voice speaking, then the low muffled tones of a man. While his time was free, he tried desperately to break free from the thick ropes that held him. Nothing came of it. Then, a vision came to him of a man- a man he had never met, he was sure of it- and he found himself stumbling from the chair without reason. Not staying to count blessings, he was halfway out the window when he heard it.

A tinkling of broken glass and a woman's cry. The man slid back to the floor and went through the door to the bar. Two guns swung his way, but he knocked them away with a flick of his hand. The men were stumbling for the door now; with another motion he saw vivid blue electricity shoot out at them. They cried out in pain but managed to escape.

The man was staring at his hands in awe, slack jawed, when Caitlin emerged from behind the bar. She was openmouthed in shock. After a moment, he said, "Did you _see_ that?" His voice was still shaking.

She nodded mutely and came toward him. She took his hands and turned them over. "How'd ye do that?"

"I don't know," he was still shocked, "but back in the cargo hold, I could've sworn the same thing happened." He looked up at her with searching eyes. The intensity of his gaze made her blush; she stepped away and went behind the bar.

"I think we both need a drink," she said with a nervous laugh as she took out two shot glasses. "Come and sit; the drinks are on the house today."

The man's face bore a shy smile, and he sat down slowly at the bar. "You have a cut on your face," he said suddenly, voice alarmed. He came around the divider and looked at it closely, all too conscious of how close he was to her.

"Is it alright, then?" Caitlin asked quietly. She put her hand over his shoulder to steady herself and was surprised by how smooth his skin was. Flawless and muscular, she thought with a smile.

"Not too deep," he sighed with relief, "but any harder and you'd need stitches. Count yourself lucky this time." He looked down at her face warmly, and their eyes lingered together. He was losing himself; before he could stop, he was kissing her.

The kiss lingered, too, for a long time. Both were drawn in by it without knowing why- they were perfect strangers. Caitlin ran her hands over his shoulders and pulled him in closer as he did the same; they were intertwined together by destiny in a blissful moment. Gradually, the feeling faded and, grinning, they drew away from each other.

"Wow," breathed Caitlin, suddenly feeling twenty again.

He backed away and moved around to sit on the barstool, face glowing from a happiness he could not remember ever having, and said, "how about that drink?"

They both burst out in giddy laughter. Caitlin pulled out a bottle of _Crested Ten _and placed it on the counter before moving to a seat as well. As she poured the drinks, she said in a solemn voice: "Here's to you, Here's to me, and _here's _to whatever is happening." She flashed a smile to him as they raised their glasses and drank.

"That's good stuff," the man said with a slight cough. He laughed, and the conversation carried on easily, each feeling like old friends already.

Just here to disclaim: "I own nothing! Nothing at All!" In fact, I rent everything!

This is set at the beginning of season 2. It's a 'what if' Peter had staid in Cork. There'll be more to come eventually- once my inspiration kicks in again.. And (another cliché) _REVIEWS APPRECIATED!_


	2. Chapter 2: Elle

Elle

Peter dreamed. _The man with a sword. He was panicking, but why? The crowd stared, holding each other in fear. A woman was stepping forward with a gun, her skin burning and peeling away in front of his eyes, but what was she saying? He couldn't hear, couldn't smell, couldn't feel anything but the burning pain. When it was becoming unbearable, a man stepped up to him. Then all he knew was the sky, fear, and an overbearing light. _

He sat up with a shout of terror and found himself in bed. It had been the same dream for nights- the exact same story in his dreams, but already it was fading. The dream was falling away, and, even before Peter's breath settled, it left him with only a sense of what he had seen. With a groan, Peter flipped the sheets off of himself and slid out of bed; he would not be able to go back to sleep now.

It had been a feat at first to gain Ricky's trust. The man, as a mobster, was naturally and justifiably cautious of strangers. It had taken the saving of both money and lives for Ricky to fully accept Peter into the group and give him his identity. Even now, though, the boss was more than reluctant over Peter and Caitlin's relationship.

He heard the soft movements of the paint brush before he entered the studio. She was seated with her back to him, eyes occupied by the artwork forming on the canvas, and did not notice him. Peter walked softly. He went to the refrigerator and took the milk carton from it; he closed the door quietly, but the noise was enough to break Caitlin's concentration. She looked up with a start as he poured himself a glass.

"You're awake," she noted with concerned eyes.

Peter nodded and padded over to her. "I had the dream again."

"Do you remember it this time?"

"No." Peter sighed and drank his milk. He sat down in front of her, resting his forehead on her knees. "It's beginning to feel hopeless to try."

Caitlin smiled wistfully and ran a paint-covered hand through his Peter's hair. It surprised her that after three weeks she still marveled at him. His hair was always silky, his skin smooth, muscles graceful, movements cat-like, and even in moments of anger his eyes remained soft. He looked up at her curiously; her hands slid down his neck and over his bare shoulders; she leant down and kissed him softly.

The moment enveloped both of them in its magic. When they reluctantly pulled away, it was because of the knock on the door. Caitlin stood uncertainly, Peter close behind her, and walked toward the door. The knock came again, innocently, but Peter pulled Caitlin back and stepped warily before the door.

"What time is it?" He whispered to her.

"Two in the morning," she whispered back.

"It's too late for Ricky. Go to the back room; stay back there."

"Peter-"

"Listen, I have a bad feeling about this. We both know someone's trying to find me. They could be dangerous!"

Caitlin frowned but did as he asked. Peter waited a moment and stepped to the door. "Who is it?" he called.

"Peter, open the door." The woman's American accent was snappy and impatient, and he was surprised that she knew his name. Knowing he would regret it, he opened the door.

She was surprisingly young. Peter couldn't believe that, of all people, a _girl_ would come for him. She had a youthful glow and sparkling eyes that seemed so innocent to him. Her blonde hair was set back in a black velvet band, but stray strands seemed to float into her face.

"Who are you?"

"The Company sent me to collect you, Peter. You're going to be taken back for safety."

"Whose safety? Why?" He thought of what he could do. _Healing, precognition, telekinesis, mind reading on a whim, and the electric thing_- only the last was considerably dangerous.

"The public's safety, Peter, because your abilities are dangerous."

There had been a glint to her eyes as she said those words, as if by some element the word 'dangerous' excited her passions. Peter had a flash of some memory, not vivid enough to be real, but startling nonetheless: the impossible giggling of a blonde girl as pain shot through his body like electricity. _Electricity!_

"And your abilities are safe?" He said sarcastically, backing away from the door. He covered his chest warily with it, and for a good reason, too.

Something lit up her eyes and overpowered her innocent smile. Peter slammed the door and hit the ground as it splintered above his head from the force of the bolt. He scrambled across the room, hiding himself behind as much furniture as possible. He'd hardly slid behind the couch when the woman kicked her way through the ruined door and shot a bolt of electricity after him, scorching the floor where his head had just been.

"Peter," she called softly in her sing-song voice, "it's time for you to come home." She stepped farther into the room and crouched, her body sliding slowly into place so as to catch him.

Caitlin peered into the hall and saw Peter hiding behind the couch. "Are ya okay, Peter?" she said, ducking when the electricity came toward her. She did not see him scramble around the couch so that he was positioned behind the electric wielder.

Elle rounded the corner and faced her, her blue eyes crackling with electricity. Caitlin slammed the door and ducked; it splintered just above her head. She reached under the bed, her hand groping in the darkness for the handle of her brother's gun- the one he had taught her to use. When she had found it, she wheeled in place and aimed at the door. Her breath heaved, and she waited for the woman.

Peter saw the blonde woman nearing Caitlin's door, heard the door crack. He crouched in place and eyed the crazy woman, knowing that physically he would be unable to take her down. Instead, he picked up a knife, held it for a moment in indecision, and then sent it hurtling toward her.

Elle screamed as the blade hit her just above the shoulder blade. She turned and threw a bolt of electricity toward Peter, but he managed to dive away from it. He sent Caitlin's bookshelf down on top of the injured woman from across the room, managing to knock her out with the blow. The crash uprooted Caitlin, and she opened the door warily with gun in hand.

"You okay?" he asked her.

"I would ask the same of you," she breathed, eying the bookshelf.

"I'm fine."

Caitlin nodded. She stepped cautiously up to Elle and checked her pulse. _Alive._ Peter hauled the shelf off her, and together they pulled the blonde to the kitchen. She dug through the cabinets, eventually finding duct tape, and used it to secure the woman.

"Just in case?" Caitlin asked rhetorically. Peter nodded in strong favor of the bonds. He leaned over slightly and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear softly. When she looked his way, he kissed her like a gentleman, though the effect was mixed from the mischievous grin he bore. Caitlin smacked playfully him in the arm.

"What was that for?" He jumped backward, away from her reach, still grinning.

"Wait until we get her to Ricky; he'll know what to do with her," she replied with a smile and an exasperated sigh.

"Bring her to the van, then?" he picked up the woman. She was surprisingly light.

"Bring her to the van," agreed Caitlin.

The main lanes in Cork were empty, the fog having driven every sane driver off the road in the late night. Caitlin drove the way, breaking every road law that Peter knew of, with one eye in the review mirror. Peter sat next to her with his hand clutching the safety bar and his feet planted firmly where his imaginary brake petal lay.

"Do you think we might be able to slow down a bit?" he asked as his stomach lurched.

"No," replied Caitlin tersely. She pulled the wheel hard to the right and the van entered a skid around the corner. "She'll be waking soon."

"She's tied, Caitlin."

"She can get through the bonds, though. When she does, she'll come after you again."

"I think I'll be able to handle her again," sniffed Peter.

"I'd rather not take the chance, Peter," Caitlin said somberly.

She pulled onto smaller road and then an alleyway in quick succession, nearly uprooting Peter from his seat in the process. Finally the van skidded to a stop at the back entrance to the pub. Peter threw himself from the van and caught his breath.

When Caitlin emerged from the van, she tossed Peter the key to the back door and opened the back hatch to check on the prisoner. Peter went dutifully to the door and entered the shop; he knew immediately that something bad had happened there. A sickly smell similar to burnt flesh overcame him, and, as he walked farther in, he saw scorch marks across the wooden floors. Though horrified, he felt obligated to Ricky to keep going.

What he saw made him wish he'd turned around. The man on the ground was blackened, burnt beyond recognition. He still steamed faintly from the heat of the attack, but Peter was easily able to see that he was dead. Peter knelt beside him and saw the ring Ricky had worn with such familial pride; he knew then that it had been Ricky who'd died here, tortured and burnt until he had screamed out Peter's whereabouts.

"Ricky?" Peter could hear her footsteps padding down the hallway and coming closer.

"Caitlin, no!" screamed Peter. "Don't come in here!" It was too late; she had already come through the doorway and seen the body. At first her eyes betrayed confusion- she soon realized what she was seeing.

"Ricky!" she shrieked and ran to him. Peter grabbed her quickly by the shoulders and held her back from the burnt body, but she had already seen the worst of it. Though she fought to kneel by her brother, she soon gave in to the tragedy and instead fell into Peter's arms sobbing her Ricky's name.

Peter carried her to the bar and set her down on a stool. He poured her a tall glass of something- it didn't matter at the moment- and handed to her. She took it and downed the entire thing without looking at what it was, and the burn didn't register on her shocked face. She stared blankly at the wall in front of her while Peter called the police.

"…Yeah, I don't know what happened, but it's bad," he was saying. "I'm pretty sure it couldn't have been an accident- he wasn't near anything electrical."

Caitlin suddenly felt the gun that was pressed between her skin and her pants. She looked hastily toward her brother, then Peter, before ducking away and running for the back door as quietly as she could. Outside, she breathed in the damp pre-dawn air and leaned back against the slimy wall to calm herself. Once her head had cleared sufficiently, she took a deep breath and pulled out the hand gun.

It was steel gray with a black grip handle, a perfectly anonymous weapon. The safety was a small button close to the trigger; Caitlin pressed it and heard the faint _click_ with a cold resolve that could freeze the normal soul. She ejected the clip, checked it quickly, then slammed it back into the handle and stepped up to the van.

There was no sound to be heard in the interior of the van, no rustle of fabrics to warn of danger. Caitlin threw open the rear door and gazed in coldly at the bleeding girl lying unconscious before her. Caitlin lifted the gun, pausing only because she wanted the bitch to remember her face, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet seemed to slow for a split second after the _crack!_ of the shot. Then it sped and hit its mark dutifully, a lethal blow to the back of the head that exploded in gruesome detail before her eyes.

Peter was there, appearing from nowhere as he seemed to do so often, in time to catch her as she fell back, shocked at what she'd just done. The gun dropped from her hand and clattered onto the cobblestone alleyway; it sounded faintly hollow to her ears. Images swam before her eyes in such a rapid succession that she could not follow them, and then she could only see the soft blur of Peter's face above her. She drifted in his arms.

"Caitlin!" his voice was concerned, but too far away to answer. She closed her eyes, seeing images of gun smoke and burnt flesh. She fainted.

In the alley, Peter held her as the realization of the night's events hit him fully. His forehead was knotted in tension and confusion, hardly processing what was happening. The only thing that seemed real was Caitlin; he clutched her tightly in his arms. It was in those moments that he heard it, a small whisper inside his head.

_Don't leave me, Peter. Don't you leave me, too._

"I won't leave, Caitlin," said Peter softly. He kissed her forehead. "I promise."


	3. Chapter 3: Acceptance

Chapter 3

Acceptance

…

The next few days were hectic. The pub was closed for the police investigation, Ricky's gang followed aimlessly in Peter's tracks because they were now leaderless and had nowhere else to turn, and Caitlin stood alone in her grief. She went about the funeral preparations with a concrete resolve, not breaking stride as those around her settled in to grieving tears.

Two days after Ricky's death and with the police still holding the keys to the pub, Caitlin took over legal management of the facility. She, in turn, gave the unofficial position of manager to Peter. Though the business had been family owned and operated for over a generation, the family was cheery of her decision. The young man had, after all, been a gentleman to her and Ricky's go-to guy for nearly anything. He _was_ practically one of the family.

As a near member of the family, Ricky's gang took Peter in as much- if not more than- as they had done with Caitlin. One night while she was out arranging the funeral details with the home, the men picked Peter up and drove him to the docks. The harsh lighting of the yellow bulbs overhead created grotesque shadows and blended the pools of stagnant water with blackened asphalt; Peter had to admit the place was all the more sinister for it.

He met the group of men, who had previously been run by the great Ricky McCallany, on a yacht docked on what he believe was one of the most treacherous piers he'd ever crossed. The wood had been wet and slimy with rot, even going so far as to creak under foot and move with the tide; this had been made even more hazardous to general health by the fact that halfway across, the dim lights from overhead had flickered and went out, leaving Peter and the other two men to finish their trek in gloom. The yacht, by comparison, was a Hilton suite, though it had the stench of stale cigars and spilled liquor throughout the maroon-carpeted interior. At least the boat was supposed to sway in the water.

Peter looked about uncertainly upon his arrival, both confused and interested into why he was brought amongst the men. Counting the two men who had brought him- and not including himself, Ricky had had five men working under him who were still fiercely loyal to him. Only two of the men looked like they could be younger than Peter, and the other three were not over ten years older than Peter; all of them, however, bore similar tattoos on their arms. They motioned for him to take a seat with a friendly air and a smile.

He sat.

They stared.

No one spoke for several minutes. Peter had enough time for the sweat on his palms to evaporate and disappear several times over. One foot tapped anxiously on the floor as he looked expectantly at each of the faces.

"I don't know why I'm here," he said bluntly. All the men blinked before looking to each other momentarily, all leaderless soldiers curious of what to do next. Finally one of them spoke, his voice hushed.

"You're here, Peter, because you're our leader. Ricky left a message to Sean over there," the man jerked his head to the left in indication of the fact, "sayin' that."

"Me?"

The others nodded without a trace of a smile on their faces. They were taking this seriously, Peter realized. It was no joke. He weighed his options and found them few; as long as he was with Caitlin, and that would hopefully be a while, he was in with the gang.

"Alright," he sighed. "But only temporarily- until you find someone else?"

Again, they all nodded. Peter knew that there never would be a replacement, but the fact gave him just a little bit of hope in the matter. If he wanted a way out, maybe he could get one.

"You accept, then?" This time Sean spoke.

"Yeah, I accept."

He had meant to be temporary in his position. Peter laughed at the fact now, looking back with amusement. Two years had passed in relative peace since that evening, and he and Caitlin were still together. The pub was still running. Peter was still the boss of a small mob- well, not so small anymore; in the way of things, he supposed now that he was rather infamous in certain parts of the world for having a widespread number of people on the inside of his mafia. He had informants spread through England, Scotland, and America. Best of all, he had loyal men and a loyal woman.

Life was good and Peter Petrelli wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

**_Sorry it took so long to write this; I've been pretty busy with graduating and getting college all set up for the fall. Hope you enjoyed it!_**


	4. Chapter 4: A Irish Christmas

**Reviews are, of course, much appreciated. Keeps me on the right track and all that jazz! So just give me your opinion already and make it an honest one!**

--

Chapter 4

It was winter in Cork, Ireland, and the weather was dismal. A cold wind was blowing in off the waters, bludgeoning the city with sleet and snow. White powder stuck to the buildings even as the salts melted the ground cover- it was a city wrapped up like a lit Christmas present. Few- if any- cars risked the weather on the roads even within the city limits where chemicals melted the ice.

Caitlin shivered as she came in from the weather. Peter repressed a laugh at her heavy winter gear as she came in from the storm. He took the duffel bag from her gloved hands and dipped to give her a quick kiss which she returned with numb lips.

"It's so _cold_ outside," Caitlin complained. She rubbed her face to bring back circulation.

Peter, in his thin fleece pullover, snorted and turned away to hide the laughter. He looked out the window where the thermometer on the cabin's porch read 36 Degrees Fahrenheit- hardly a New York winter where the temperatures could reach below 0 and the snows an average depth of a foot. With hardly an inch of snow and sleet on the ground, Peter was hardly bowing to Old Man Irish-Winter.

"I don't think we'll be going out any time soon," Caitlin said, looking up at the fir tree lined skies.

"I don't think that matters, Cate," Peter whispered into her ear from behind her as he laced his arms around her waist. "Think about it: the Pub is closed for the holiday, the gang's all celebrating with their families, and now it's just us." He raised his eyebrows suggestively and she laughed, a girlish sound.

"Well, I don't know…" her voice trailed off as she kissed him with parted lips.

"Mmm, damn," said Peter as he kissed her, "I suppose I'll just have to convince you." He unzipped her parka and stripped it from her shoulders.

The blue Daewoo Matiz was having a difficult time with the weather. Apparently being a manual transmission had nothing to do with stability on the roads. The woman behind the wheel frowned as she downshifted, grinding gears again, and stayed her course, fuming over the lack of winter tires and watching for the turn off signs to Lisduff.

The ringer went off on her cell phone and caused her to swerve in surprise. With one arm she reached left into the passenger's seat and felt around in her purse for the bloody phone.

"Yes?" she snapped before checking to see who had called; the soft voice on the other line made her cringe with guilt and she quickly apologized. Cradling the phone in between her chin and shoulder, she returned both hands to the steering wheel.

"Uh huh," she agreed and downshifted again to turn off New Mallow Rd. "Yeah, I'm on my way there now." The woman listened silently to the man on the other end of the phone talk.

…

"I'm on Rocky Rd. now, actually," she said, switching ears. The road was getting rougher to drive, but she was still in control of the old Matiz. "The pub he's supposed to run was closed so I headed out early."

…

"No, I'll be careful. I heard about Elle."

…

Well, she was a bitch anyway-"

…

"Sorry, Daddy; I didn't mean it."

…

"I know you knew her before she went in for tests!" She rolled her eyes for personal amusement and thought about how protective her father was of the psychopathic electric-wielder.

The car stalled out at the base of a small hill. The woman sighed heavily as she restarted the engine. The old Daewoo chugged up the hill and made it to the top before she stopped to finish her conversation.

…

"I know you didn't want me to go, Daddy, but it's better that I'm there instead of someone else. If anyone can bring him back, I can."

…

"I love you, too." She hung up the phone and silenced it for her personal safety before starting off down the winding road again.

"Hot Chocolate's best Secret Recipe," Caitlin proclaimed solemnly as she wielded her wooden stirring spoon to ward off Peter. "If ye came too close, I'd have to kill ye for the honor of my family."

Peter lifted his hands in surrender and retreated to the small kitchen table that was fit for only two cramped diners. From there he watched her prepare the ingredients: 125 grams of cocoa, two drops of almond essence, orange zest… the list went on and he slipped out of her mind to preserve the sanctity of the 'family secret.'

Instead, he let his eyes wander over the woman as she cooked to 'Curoo, Curoo'. She was wearing a pair of his green and blue flannel pajama pants, which he hadn't known were stowed away in her bags but just assumed lost, and a long sleeve thermal shirt. Despite this insulating apparel, she had been adamant about the creeping cold and had decided to make the ultimate winter drink: hot cocoa. She was slowly stirring in the necessary quantity of milk to keep her recipe at an even temperature so it would thicken properly, her brows creased in concentration as she stood over the stove.

Two years had passed since the tragic day of Ricky's death and things were going well with both the pub and Peter's inherited mafia. Sometimes, he admitted, it was all hard to believe that he had gone from… _something_ to being the leader of one of the best mafias in the Isles. Despite the ongoing blood feud that he had started on his first day in Cork (he still laughed at that in disbelief), he was generally not a wanted man; people respected him because he had gone after the low-life drug dealers and eradicated their kind from the greater Cork area.

"You know what we should do with that chocolate?" said Peter mischievously.

Caitlin turned on him with a blush on her wide-eyed face. "You dare desecrate the recipe?" She tried to keep her face straight but slipped into a half-laugh.

"Doesn't seem like a desecration to me," shrugged Peter with an innocent glance and an ornery grin.

"The cocoa's for drinking, Peter, and it'll stay that way." Caitlin burst out laughing and turned back to her stirring with vigorous motions.

Peter was grinning as he took out a blue ballpoint pen and small notepad. He studied Cate and began to sketch absently with one hand. The hand moved of its own will and without his attention while he stared at the beautiful woman before him with dreamy eyes.

"What're ye doing?" Caitlin said with an amused grin. She blew him a kiss and hummed in time with the new carol.

"Staring at you."

"I meant, what are you drawing?" She pointed at him with the chocolate-laced spoon.

"Huh?" Peter looked down at the detailed sketch he had done. A groan escaped his lips as he studied the smoking carnage of the snowy car crash. He even recognized the exact tree from the drive up and immediately he was on his feet pulling on pants, shoes and his pullover.

"Peter?" Caitlin spun the notepad and gasped at the sketch. "Peter, is that girl dead?"

"Not if I can help it," Peter spun toward the road, sharply hearing the screech of tires. "Oh, crap!"

"Peter-" she started toward him but he disappeared before her eyes.

The car had spun on the road twice before crashing headlong into the vast tree trunk. How it had managed to steer directly into the only tree larger than his waist was beyond him- luck, he supposed darkly. The fender was crushed, the hood crumpled up like an oriental fan, and the windshield shattered.

Peter ran to the driver's side. The blonde driver was limp and motionless against the bloody window. He cursed and wrenched the door open, thinking that this was exactly how the picture had described it. Peter unbuckled the safety belt and pulled the young woman out of the car, his mind moving rapidly to get her away from the vehicle before it burst into flames or whatever cars did in the movies.

She wasn't moving, and for a moment he feared the worst. Then she groaned and opened her eyes, and Peter saw the bewilderment in her green eyes.

"Don't move," He exclaimed with the mangled arm, which could only have been broken, in mind. Still, she reached over and pulled it straight with a sickening crack and a vaguely unpleasant look on her pretty face. With a frown she popped her jaw, and Peter gaped in amazement as the bloody gash on her cheek closed in a matter of seconds.

"Oh my God," He breathed, looking at the perfect sun-tanned face of the woman.

She looked up, finally registering his presence. Her eyes widened when she saw who it was, though it had taken her a moment to see past the small scar on his face and the short hair. The woman double-checked her condition again before getting shakily to her feet; she blushed under the situation and the fact that her clothing was soaked with slush.

"Oh my God," he repeated, his eyes wide with shock and emotion. "I _know_ you!"

_**--**_

_**So I thought this would be a good piece to the story. Can we guess who the mysterious woman is? Hmm? I'll have more coming up sometime- maybe in a few weeks or so- so until then keep in mind that I don't own anything of Heroes, not even Peter. ( Not even Mohinder. **_


	5. Chapter 5: Remember Me

Chapter 5

When Caitlin opened the door half an hour later it seemed that some part of Peter had changed- slipped away from her forever. His eyes were confused and weary; not too long ago they had been bright and mischievous. It was only when she looked past him to the blonde woman that she understood the change.

"Is she like the other woman?" Though her voice was unnecessarily tense, she felt that it was necessary to be suspicious of her sudden appearance.

Peter's eyes blinked rapidly and, with a nod, he enveloped her in a hug. Pretending not to notice the other's eyes on him, he held his woman tight and breathed in the soft comfort of her scent. The embrace brought him a small level of comfort.

"She's-" he paused, trying to make a connection of _how_ he knew her. "She's different, though," he finally said. "I think she saved my life once." He hadn't meant to say those words, but once out of his mouth they seemed perfectly true.

Cate pulled away hesitantly and peered into his eyes. She nodded in affirmation of his truthfulness and they broke away. Then, with a sigh, she motioned for the woman to come inside. If Peter trusted the woman than her own suspicion and doubt could be delayed for a few moments.

"I'm Caitlin," she introduced as her boyfriend disappeared into the **cottage**, feigning apathy.

"Claire," the blonde said with a smile, her words short but her manner pleasant through her confusion. With a shy dip of the head, she bowed around Caitlin and entered the vacation house.

"I've got hot cocoa in the kitchen. Have a seat," Cate motioned to the painfully small dining area as she shut the door and busted away.

"Thank you," Claire said nervously, suddenly feeling like an intruder in their private holiday. She wandered over to the small table and pulled herself into the chair comfortably before her eyes strayed to the small sketch on the table. With a gulp, she recognized the startling scene of her crash.

The older woman's words brought her back quickly. "Don't thank me," Caitlin was saying in her melodic voice. "I'm expecting ye to answer some questions later when Peter goes to move the heap of metal you called a car."

"I've already done that," Peter said, making his entrance with an awkward glance to his guest. He hopped onto the counter easily and dangled his legs restlessly until a look from Caitlin subdued him. He glanced at his guest with a sheepish grin on his face as both were handed a hot mug of cocoa, and was surprised when he noticed her eyes sparkling with laughter.

Peter broke away from his stare and kissed Cate softly on the lips. For a moment it seemed that the present faded away, the events of the last hour rushing by them until it seemed like he should be joking about a secret recipe. Then he remembered that there was a woman _like him_ here and that the past was already an eternity behind him.

As Caitlin turned away to go for her own cup, Peter slid it down the counter to her with his mind. She picked it up and turned back to plant a firm kiss on his smirking lips.

"Showoff," she breathed before sitting at the table. Peter grinned smugly at her with a sparkle in his eyes.

"You're just jealous," he retorted with a laugh, his gaze slipping back to the other woman who was sitting silently in his chair.

He had so many things to say to her- ask her, but suddenly one thing was on his mind and he asked her what was possibly the stupidest question of all times. "Do you still have that pink cell-phone?"

The grin spread on Claire's face before she could stop it. She reached into the depths of her purse and pulled out a battered pink phone. "It's about time to get a new one; after four years they tend to stop working so well." She smiled to herself and rubbed a thumb across the worn buttons wistfully.

Peter smiled, too, with the happiness of one who has remembered some important detail. Caitlin gave him an unreadable look and he blew her a kiss. _Just a reminder,_ he thought, _of how much I love you_. She caught it quickly and stuffed it into her pocket for safe keeping before turning to the guest.

"So, Claire," she began, and Peter felt relieved in finally knowing the name he couldn't place, "how did you two meet?"

"He saved my life," Claire replied promptly, meeting her hostess's eyes lightly.

"Seems less dramatic for me now that I know he does it so often," Caitlin said with a devilish look toward Peter. "It must be his pick up line."

Claire nearly choked on her hot cocoa. "No no," she said quickly, a blush flooding her cheeks and- if it was possible- her wide eyes. "Nothing like that at all. Peter's family."

If there could have been any more of a shock dealt, Peter couldn't think of it. His mouth fell open and all trace of humor faded from his face. A mixture of emotions hit him all at once; shock, of course, and some degree of embarrassment, but there was also something else he couldn't define. _Was it excitement?_

"Peter?" He couldn't tell which had spoken, but both were looking at him with the same concerned expression. He looked up, recovered quickly, and smiled- even if it was a bit forced.

"I- I have a family?" he managed to choke out, feeling a bit breathless and light headed.

Claire's face fell. Eyebrows knotted and lip quivering, it looked as if she was biting back the urge to cry. Everything in her eyes read _hurt_ more than Peter would have liked to admit, but he had to admit something. The woman nodded her head slowly and suddenly Peter understood everything. She was not upset with him; she was _grieving_ him.

"I'm sorry but this is all hard to get my head wrapped around," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. "I mean, my life was set; I had all the boundaries defined… and then it gets overturned just like that." He snapped his fingers for effect.

"Yeah, well sometimes that happens," sighed Claire. At Caitlin's curious gaze she informed the two of her quest to find her biological parents years ago, painfully aware that Peter should have known all of this already. "In some ways it was the best thing to happen to me," she recalled with her eyes glazed in remembrance.

Peter swallowed, just barely aware that Caitlin was standing in front of him. He wrapped himself around her and used her as a barrier from the shock. Curled legs and tight arms held her in place, but it seemed that she didn't mind as he placed a kiss gently at the base of her neck.

"Can-" he paused, unsure if he really wanted to walk down that corridor. "Can you tell me about them- my family?" Beside him, Caitlin rubbed his leg; the motion brought him some measure of comfort in this maniacal time.

"You have a brother- Nathan- who is a politician," Claire began as though reciting from script. Perhaps it was script.

_The last thing this family needs is another politician._

"Your mom is Angela; your father died a few years ago- heart attack-"

_He committed suicide; I lied._ Peter's head was reeling. "Suicide," he murmured. "That's how he died. Chronic depression and delusions, just like me." Cate looked back at him, brow furrowed, and gave him a sad smile.

"Nathan's wife Heidi and their children, of course," continued Claire. "Heidi was until recently in a wheelchair, paralyzed-"

"Car crash. Nathan was driving; they were rear ended by a car and he- he flew," said Peter numbly. The images were flashing in his mind now as she spoke, filling in the missing pieces completely.

"Well, how do you fit in then?" Caitlin asked bluntly. She smoke inquisitively, not sharply, and Claire smiled.

"I lived in Texas," she said, "and Peter came all the way from New York just to save my life."

"Save the Cheerleader, Save the World." Peter met her eyes as he spoke.

"Exactly. I later found out that the stranger who'd saved my life was like me and that he was my Uncle. Nathan's folly, but it was Peter who was there for me." She beamed with delight and something more. "He made me feel like I _belonged _in the world- that I wasn't alone."

Peter buried himself in Caitlin's neck, but she was sure she could hear him smiling. He was happy, not that he had been unhappy before, but back then there had been a void in his life. Not a darkness but a supreme emptiness that was always lurking in the back of his mind. Now it was closing, becoming smaller, and she had to be happy for him. He was slowly becoming whole again- completely aware of who he was.

The questions still remained, however. Why here? Why now? What was next to come?


End file.
